


Serbian China

by burusume



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Yugotalia
Genre: Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 16:31:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15538374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burusume/pseuds/burusume
Summary: A beautiful china doll clad in a Serbian folk outfit, with little suns in its eyes.





	Serbian China

Šćepan brushes his fingers over the scalp of the doll, messing up its hair even more while trying to fix it. The doll’s face cracks a bit at the left, and he wonders if Enis has bought him like this or he knocked it himself by accident, yesterday; doesn’t sound like Enis to have already cracked it, though. The doll’s face is matte, with plump lips, just enough of a pink tint in them. Its eyes harbor a warm brown, and if Šćepan angles it in the setting sun’s greeting through his window, he sees two smaller suns looking up at him from the doll’s eyes.

 

“I hope he’ll take care of you. Good care.”

 

His eyes squint, he only now notices the long, long lashes on top of the doll’s eyes.

 

“Huh, what long lashes you have…”

 

Šćepan moves his finger from the hair, from the shirt he’s been feeling, to the lashes, thin and like rays spraying from the doll’s suns, to his eyes, and then to Šćepan’s eyes. The doll’s sad, understanding stare settles in, and Šćepan can now talk with more ease.

 

“Back in the days, the old, old ones...not so old, though, I was already around...13 in age. But I was already a tree in stature.” Šćepan laughs, moving the last lock of stray hair from the doll’s face.

 

“He was still on the move. Always on the move,” the Montenegrin gets up, carrying the quiet boy with him to the open window, “He wasn’t in any army now, just running around, trying to gather people,” Šćepan lowers his eyes through the planter, “...power.”

 

“Firearms. I’d tell him:  _ Vuk, what are you even doing? _ Revolts, what for? He was wearing that long coat, it never fit him, he looked like a crow,” Šćepan mutters under his breath, trying to catch a sight of the scattered people below.

 

“ _ Shut up with that name! I told you I’m not called like that anymore. _ You know what his new name was?” He looks down at the doll, losing himself, actually expecting an answer for a second, “Radovan. Took it from a leader of the resistance who died at the hands of border guards.”

 

Šćepan busies himself by pulling at the doll’s shirt, sash, pants. No matter how neat they look, to him, they still seem tattered, messied, ugly.

 

“And you know what I was? A border guard. Did he think I’d kill him for funsies?” the Montenegrin glances harshly at the frightened china, “Did he? I always let him pass unnoticed. Did he think that now, I was the enemy?”

 

Šćepan suddenly becomes speechless. The resemblance between this coloured head and limbs of china and his cousin grows bigger, and thicker. He places the doll on the bed, leaving it to look with interest at the brown door, just in time as Enis calls out to him for dinner.


End file.
